


Thundering Moments

by alynwa



Series: Song Stories [43]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa
Summary: The prompt is Garth Brooks' "The Red Strokes."  Lyrics follow the story.





	Thundering Moments

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt is Garth Brooks' "The Red Strokes." Lyrics follow the story.

It seemed, at least lately, every mission assigned to them tried to be their last.  The “skin of their teeth” escapes were getting old.  _They_ were getting old.  They were both thirty – eight, though Illya was just and Napoleon was two months’ shy of his thirty – ninth birthday.  There were days when they each felt one hundred and thirty – eight years old.  Today was one of those days.

They had flown all night from Tunisia and dragged themselves into HQ straight from the airport to report to the Old Man.  Napoleon thought they must have looked as bad as they felt because Mr. Waverly didn’t hesitate to grant his verbal request for two weeks’ vacation, provided they complete all of their outstanding paperwork before leaving the building. 

“Illya, how much more do you have to do?  I have three mission reports to review and sign and my half of our mission report to write and I’m done.”

The Russian removed his glasses to look at his partner.  “You look godawful!  Do I look as bad as all that?”  At Napoleon’s nod he put his glasses back on and replied, “I am almost finished.  Do the mission report first so I can give it to Sara to type along with my lab reports.  That way, you can review the other teams’ reports while she types ours, so that by the time she’s finished, we can sign our reports and go.”

“Makes sense.”

“Of course, it does.  Hurry up; I will stop by Sara’s office on my way to the lab.  I need to leave instructions regarding my science projects.  I do not want my experiments ruined because I am on vacation.”

“Does the staff screw up your experiments when we’re working an affair?  No?  So, what’s the difference?  The bottom line is: You’re not going to be here.  At least this time, you can give advance notice to the lab personnel.”

Illya stared at Napoleon for nearly thirty seconds.  “I must be tired.  You are absolutely right.  However, I still need to tell them what I want monitored.”

Hours later found the two men sitting in Napoleon’s living room, each with a glass of liquor in hand.  They had decided wordlessly to spend time together which meant heading to the CEA’s larger, more comfortable penthouse.  Dinner had been takeout picked up on the way there.  Illya took another sip of his vodka and said quietly, “I feared for our lives this time, moy droog.”

“I know.  I did, too.”  Napoleon poured three more fingers of scotch into his glass and took a deep swallow.  “It seems the closer we get to forty, the worse the fear gets for me.  What about you?”

The very fact that the men could have a conversation this raw and honest spoke to the strength of their friendship and bond.  Section II agents were notoriously loathe to share their feelings; not with the shrinks in Medical, not to each other and definitely not to Mr. Waverly lest they be pulled out of the field prematurely.  Solo and Kuryakin however, had been honest with each other from the start of their partnership.  The CEA had insisted upon it, claiming it would make them better partners and agents.  Illya had agreed grudgingly and had complied, though in the beginning, he volunteered nothing, but would answer truthfully if Napoleon asked a direct question.  As the trust between them grew, Illya let his barriers fall and he learned to share willingly with his partner and friend any and all details of his life; what he thought and how he felt as easily as Napoleon shared the same with him.  Both men firmly believed that was the secret to their success.  They never usually discussed the downside of that bond: That all the sharing of feelings and baring their souls through the years had made them indispensable to each other; but then again, they had never been this close to field retirement before.

“The fear for me is not so much that I will lose my life, Napoleon, though I would prefer not to, of course.  My greatest fear is that you will lose _your_ life.”  He gulped down what was left in his glass and poured more vodka.  “That frightens me more than I can say.”

“Short Timers’ Fever.”

Illya’s eyebrows lifted.  “’Short Timers’ Fever?’ What is that?”

“That is when the closer one gets to retirement, or in our case, retirement from the field, the more anxious one becomes.  Sometimes, people start feeling like they can’t take it anymore, that they need to bail early or they start to feel like they’re pushing their luck, that they’re going to make a fatal error in the time they have left in the field.  It all boils down to the same thing: You’re afraid to keep going.  You start to think you’re too old for this crap.  In my case, maybe in yours, everyday I’m more and more afraid that I’m going to make a fatal mistake.”

Illya nodded.  “I think I understand, like my experiments in the lab.  You’re right, I never used to worry about the staff destroying my work when we left on an assignment.”  He shook himself suddenly and stood.  “I think I have had enough of this conversation.  I am going to bed.  What about you?”

Napoleon checked his watch.  “It’s not that late, but I am tired.  I could have gone to bed as soon as we walked through the door, but I wanted to spend time with you.”  He walked to the Russian and pulled him into a bear hug.  “G’night, Partner,” he whispered before letting go and heading down the hall to his room.

Illya was surprised by the gesture but accepted it good-naturedly.  “Good night,” he replied before he headed down the hall to the guest room.

“ _ILLYA!_ ”  The Russian sat bolt upright, momentarily confused before he recognized his surroundings.  An anguished sob reached his ears and he shot out of bed and ran to the master bedroom.  He entered to find Napoleon thrashing around on his bed crying and calling for him.

“Napoleon!  Napoleon, _wake up_!”  When he saw his partner’s eyes open, he dared to get on the bed to get closer.  “You are having a nightmare!  You are safe at home, you are safe,” Illya kept repeating in what he hoped was coming across as a calm voice. 

Napoleon for his part had reached out and practically yanked the smaller man to him.  He was almost hysterical as he clutched Illya desperately and continued to cry.  Illya could feel both their hearts pounding, his from the adrenaline rush he had gotten awakening to his name being screamed and Napoleon’s as he was still in the throes of whatever hellish vision was haunting him.  Illya had tried to pull back so he could look into his partner’s face, but when the larger man resisted, he allowed himself to continue to be enveloped in Napoleon’s arms.  He brought his arms around so that he could rub his hands up and down Napoleon’s back as he continued to try to sooth him, even resorting to placing soft kisses on the man’s temple where he could taste salty tears.

Just as he was beginning to worry that Napoleon had snapped somehow, he could hear his crying start to slow down until hitches and snuffling replaced sobs.  Napoleon now laid quietly, stroking the back of Illya’s head.  Finally, he released the blond and slid away from him.  “I’m, I’m sorry, Illya.”  He patted Illya’s shoulder collegially.  “I’m okay, now.  Go back to bed.”

Instead, Illya turned on the lamp on the nightstand behind him.  “Napoleon, you may be ‘okay,’ but I am not.  You woke me out of a deep sleep and when I ran in here, you grabbed me like you would never let go of me and cried like I have never heard you do before.  You need to tell me what you dreamt.”

Napoleon blushed and said, “It was a nightmare.”  He hoped that would be explanation enough, but when the Russian wouldn’t budge, he hung his head and started to recount it.  “I was retired from the field and was Section I.  You were still out there.  I was on a conference call, I think, and Lisa Rogers interrupted to tell me that you…you had been brought into Medical and it didn’t look good.  The next thing I remember, I’m in Medical watching the doctors work on you while some idiot agent is telling me that you had gone through a door and been ambushed.  He kept saying, ‘How was I supposed to know he was going to do that?’ until I rounded on him and shouted, ‘I would have known!  I should have been there!’ and I think I was about to attack him when all hell breaks loose in surgery, alarms are going off and then the doctors say you’re dead.”  He shuddered from the memory.  “I went to your bedside and you looked…”  His voice trailed off as the tears threatened to start up again.  He fought to get himself back under control.  “You looked…so pale.  So young.  I couldn’t accept it.  I yelled your name and threw myself on your body.  I, I didn’t realize I had done it aloud until I woke up and saw you.  I’m sorry I scared you, but it all seemed so real…My heart broke in two.”

“I am sorry you had such a terrible dream.  No doubt it was inspired by our earlier conversation.  We cannot control or command our dreams, Napoleon.  After all these years, you know that.”  He got up and fixed the covers where they had been pulled loose while Napoleon watched.

Napoleon flopped onto his back. “Turn out the light please, Illya,” he said.  When the light winked out, he said, “I lied.  I’m not okay.  Would you…stay here with me?”

“Of course.  One thing I am grateful for…” The voice trailed off as he got into bed and laid on his back.

Impatient for the Russian to continue, Napoleon urged, “Grateful for what?”

Illya laughed.  “That we both sleep in pajama bottoms or this would have been _very_ awkward.”

Napoleon snorted a laugh despite the tumble of emotions he was still feeling.  “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, Partner.”  They laid in companionable silence for a while.  “Illya?  Still awake?”

“Yes.”

“I just remembered something else about Short Timers’ Fever: It only gets worse.”

Illya sighed loudly.  “I can see that happening.  We will continue to do our best, but promise me, Napoleon, if you notice me being overly cautious you will tell me.”

“Only if you promise to tell me if you think I’m being overly protective of you.  We have each other.  Let’s keep it that way.”  He stretched his arm out to feel for Illya’s head and ruffled the blond hair in the dark.  “Get some sleep.”

“Good night, Napoleon.”

Both men fell asleep wondering how they were going to make it to forty.        

**Author's Note:**

> "The Red Strokes"
> 
> Moonlight on canvas, midnight and wine   
> Two shadows starting to softly combine   
> The picture they're painting   
> Is one of the heart   
> And to those who have seen it   
> It's a true work of art 
> 
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Passions uncaged   
> Thundering moments of tenderness rage   
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Tempered and strong (Fearlessly drawn)   
> Burning the night like the dawn 
> 
> Steam on the window, salt in a kiss   
> Two hearts have never pounded like this   
> Inspired by a vision   
> That they can't command   
> Erasing the borders   
> With each brush of a hand 
> 
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Passions uncaged   
> Thundering moments of tenderness rage   
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Tempered and strong (Fearlessly drawn)   
> Burning the night like the dawn 
> 
> Oh, the blues will be blue and the jealousies green   
> But when love picks its shade it demands to be seen 
> 
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Passions uncaged   
> Thundering moments of tenderness rage   
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Tempered and strong (Fearlessly drawn)   
> Burning the night like the dawn 
> 
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Passions uncaged   
> Thundering moments of tenderness rage   
> Oh, the red strokes   
> Tempered and strong (Fearlessly drawn)   
> Burning the night like the dawn 
> 
> Steam on the window, salt in a kiss   
> Two hearts have never pounded like this


End file.
